


You're My Saint

by Josies



Series: No Saints Without Sinners [1]
Category: Saints Row
Genre: Angst, Challenges, F/M, Flirting, Friends With Benefits, Mutual Pining, Pining, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-02-15 16:26:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18673291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Josies/pseuds/Josies
Summary: Five times Johnny called the Boss beautiful + one time hedidn'tcouldn't.





	1. Don't you read between the lines

**Author's Note:**

> I got this prompt from a friend while fighting writer's block and I ended up liking what I wrote, so I figured someone else might too! It does mess up the timeline, but it could also work as a kind of an introduction to NSWS, so I'm placing it at the start of the series. These are pretty short, but I split them into 3 chapters, mostly so I could name them with lyrics from the song I listened to while writing (YO! MY SAINT by Karen O) 😂 I'll post the rest in the next few days!
> 
> I have a few fics ready to be edited and I should be able to hold a more even posting schedule now. I'm close to 100k published words already and I have so many more fics coming and I'm super excited about them!!! I hope you've all enjoyed the ride so far and stay around for more 😌💜

 

* * *

**I. 2006 (SR)**

* * *

 

"Ya know, everyone can see you're beautiful. You don't need to try to prove it so hard."

Doris frowns. She's not sure if it's a compliment, or... is he calling her vain? During the past couple of months she's learned you never know with Johnny. He can be a real dick, and most of the time he is just that, but he can also be sort of charming. Maybe it's just one of his numerous attempts to try to get her talking. Yeah, has to be that.

He keeps staring at her through the rear-view mirror, though. They're sitting in her car, still looking out for a truck with a weapons shipment that was supposed to pass by almost two hours ago. She's applying more lipstick in the back seat after having fries and a milkshake, and a nap Johnny kept loudly protesting over. Snapping her small compact mirror shut, she turns her gaze up to the rear-view mirror to answer his stare with piercing eyes, like she's challenging him. He doesn't turn away, which leads them into a strangely charged staring contest.

"Am I the only one startin' to have doubts about this whole thing?" Troy's voice breaks the silence through a walkie-talkie on top of the dashboard. He's about seven hundred yards away, on the side of another road the truck might take. Or, should have taken by now.

Johnny grabs the walkie-talkie and turns the volume of the radio down before answering. "Are ya sayin' Dex was wrong?"

Doris reaches between the front seats to turn the volume back up while he speaks. He slaps her hand away, she slaps his hand back. The rings on her fingers feel nasty hitting against his knuckles. The volume goes back up.

"No, I'm sayin' his intel might be a bluff to draw us away from the real shipment."

"Don't let Dex catch you sayin' tha—yo, cut that shit!"

Troy moves the walkie-talkie further away from his hearing range to avoid popping an eardrum. He sighs deep. "You two slappin' each other around again?"

"This bitch is—I swear to God, I will kick you outta this fuckin' car!"

Johnny's threatening only gets an amused giggle out of Doris. For some reason she isn't afraid of him, not like everyone else seem to be. Come to think of it, she isn't afraid of anything, really. It's like she lacks that basic human instinct that tells you to look out for your own ass. It's probably why she's willing to do whatever they throw at her. He's half annoyed, half impressed by it, and so far he hasn't actualized any of his threats. That's another strange thing.

Troy rolls his eyes. Their bickering turns more and more childish each day, and she doesn't even talk, so it's mostly just Johnny raging by himself. He's not sure whether they want to kill or fuck each other. Probably both. Either way, he's not going to get messed up in their games. He's an undercover cop, not a goddamn babysitter.

"You kids have fun."

The line goes dead, but neither of them really notice. They're busy throwing stuff at each other — cold fries and burger wraps and pickle slices. Meanwhile the truck with the weapons shipment passes right by them. Dex yells at them for forty-five minutes straight while trying to fix their mess that night, and after that Julius yells at them for an hour more, but they don't bother learning from it.

 

 

* * *

  **II. 2006 (SR)**

* * *

 

"Yo, beautiful."

Doris looks up from her phone, clearly confused. "You talkin' to me?"

"Who else?" Johnny shrugs, gesturing vaguely at the empty church. It's just the two of them, save for some fresh crew members keeping an eye out for trouble outside. "You want that lesson about handlin' knives now? We got some time before Julius comes back."

"Um, sure," she says as she flips her phone shut, "why not."

She knows how to protect herself, how to break bones, and how to make a man twice her size beg for mercy. The thing is, she's never seen anyone handle knives, and the various ways of stabbing and cutting up another human being, the way Johnny does. He damn near turns it into a form of art. She's not going to turn down a free lesson.

She follows him into his office — for a lack of a better word. It's more like a tacky teenage boy's room with all the half naked girls covering the walls. Except, now most of the girls have moustaches, wrinkles, and speech bubbles filled with very colorful commentary on Johnny's manners, speculation on his alleged size, and other highly offensive things about him. She's not sure if he's even noticed.

He spreads an impressive collection of knives on his desk, pushing a stack of papers and some red plastic cups out of the way and off the desk. She can already hear Dex yelling about the papers at him later. He takes his time adoring the knives, running his fingers over the handles, carefully deciding which one to pick.

She raises an eyebrow. "That's kinda disturbin'. Stop."

"Yo, they're my ladies and I love 'em," he says, frowning at her. "Show some respect."

"And he keeps makin' it weirder," she sighs as she steps closer to take a better look at the knives. She picks up one of the largest ones. The grip is nice and sturdy, but the knife weighs her wrist down a little. "This one's cool."

"Yeah, that bayonet cost four hundred bucks," he says. "Way too big and heavy for you."

"Right, 'cause I'm a girl," she says, rolling her eyes. She drops the knife back on the desk.

"'Cause, judgin' by the way you fight, you like to use the element of surprise," he says as he picks up a smaller knife to weigh it and balance it on his fingers. "Which is a smart tactic for a person talented enough to hide their next move from their opponent."

She leans against the desk to tilt her head at him, pursing her lips approvingly. "You think I'm talented?"

"I know talent when I see it," he replies, switching to another knife.

At first, he didn't believe she would even make it through canonization, never mind helping them clear out the Row, but she ended up being brutally effective. When Julius assigned her to help him out with the Vice Kings, he couldn't say no, and now that the whole rival gang has been wiped out, he's glad he didn't.

Still, they have two other gangs left to deal with and things are getting more violent by the day. In close combat, he's noticed she prefers to use a baseball bat. For a woman her size, it's understandable she wants to keep bigger opponents at a distance. The way she takes down targets with a sniper rifle is astounding, though. It's clear to him that she has had some kind of combat training, but she refuses to tell him anything about it, knowing it pisses him off. However, sooner or later, she's going to find herself in a situation where a hidden knife will save her life, and he wants her to be ready when that happens.

"Here, try this," he says, offering her the knife he's holding handle first, which she takes. "You should start out with a trainin' blade, but I don't have one, so try not to cut yourself."

She gives him an amused look. "I'll do my best, but no promises."

"So, personally, I prefer some serrated edge along the blade, you know, to rip through clothes and flesh, do some extra damage," he says and she can hear the grin in his voice. "But with your speed and flexibility, you can just aim for the throat with her, and you'll be good. Covered in blood, but good."

"What makes you think I like it messy?" she asks as she moves the knife around to inspect it. It's smooth and black, and the blade and the handle are both curved.

"Think you like it chaotic."

She nods. "Sounds better."

"Stainless steel karambit, fixed blade, six and a half inches. Perfect for self-defense. Easy to conceal." He pauses as he glances at her skirt — it's tight and it barely covers half of her thighs. "Even under the skirts you wear."

"I do like thigh straps," she says, ignoring his flirting on purpose, "and I think we'll work perfectly together."

"She's lean and mean. A special girl."

"Yeah, awfully sexy of this knife to be so curved," she says in a husky, but at the same time mocking tone.

He chuckles, picking up a knife for himself to show her the right grips and techniques, and a few of his favorite moves. He's surprised over how fast she learns and how natural she looks wielding the knife he picked for her. He shows her how to swiftly slash the opponent's kneecaps, armpits and throat, and he notices an excited sparkle in her eyes. It's something he feels, too, when he learns a new way to win a fight.

"No," he says suddenly, "you gotta hold her like this."

Doris' whole body tenses up when Johnny touches her. He stands behind her, his chest much closer to her back than necessary, his fingers over hers, adjusting her grip and the angle of her wrist, and his free hand rests on her hip. A small, amused grin tugs at the corner of her lips. Just to humor herself, she doesn't shove him off, or break his foot with the heel of her shoe, or dislocate his thumb as a warning. Instead, she plays along.

"You like how she feels?" he asks right next to her ear, giving her a little shiver.

She bites down on her lip to keep herself from asking him the same question, just as suggestively. "Yeah."

"Good," he says as he lets go of her, "you can have her."

"What?" She turns to look at him. "You sure?"

"Sometimes two pretty girls belong together."

"I really hope you're not talkin' about porn, but I'm probably wrong."

Johnny laughs, walking behind his desk to put the rest of the knives away. "My favorite genre."

"Which one — lesbians or knives?"

"Lesbians with knives."

She holds back a giggle. "That ain't a real genre."

"Oh, it definitely is."

"Ya nasty," she says, scrunching her nose.

"They here," he says with a nod at his door when the echoing of familiar voices fill up the church. "We'll continue later."

She snickers as she takes the sheath and slides the knife back into it, attaching it to her rivet belt. "Yeah, you wish, baby-boy."

The door opens and people start pouring in, and he can only give her a subtle grin as a response, accepting the challenge her words may, or may not have presented. Either way, Johnny's avid on seeing that sparkle in her eyes again.

She keeps the knife and never loses it.

 

* * *

 


	2. Don't you know my eyes, they'll see you only

 

* * *

**III. 2009 (SR2)**

* * *

"I don't know, Doe. Think you look beautiful."

Doris spits out blood on the road in front of her. She looks up at Johnny. Her upper lip is busted, her nose is bleeding, there's a big-ass bruise forming up on her cheek, and her chin's full of nasty scrapes from having her face smashed into the asphalt. Her mouth tastes like copper. She just told him she's going to look fucking hideous tomorrow, and she definitely didn't expect the reply he gave her. "That ain't funny," she says.

"Wasn't jokin'."

"Liar." She moves her gaze down to her knees. They got scraped through her fishnet stockings, too. Her body aches. "I think my cheekbone's fractured. Or my nose's broken. Or both."

"Lemme have a look." Johnny sits down next to her on the edge of a sidewalk. He places his fingers under her jaw and turns her head to face him. Then he taps her cheekbone with his thumb, making her flinch. Gently squeezing the bridge of her nose up and down between his index finger and thumb makes her flinch again and pull back a bit. Nothing's broken. She's being a baby. "Nah, you just beautiful," he announces his diagnose.

_"Vale ya,"_ she stretches her words with a little chuckle as she turns her head away from him, "you flirt."

"Well, you shouldn't have killed a man with your bare hands in front of me."

"Well, that bitch shouldn't have fucked with my face," she huffs.

"I ain't ever seen you do that before."

"Don't recall ever doin' it," she says as she stares at her bleeding knuckles. Her hands are slightly trembling, though not out of fear or shock of what she did; they're trembling because of the thrill of it, of the raw adrenaline still flowing through her. Johnny had to pull her off the guy whose face she beat into a pulp. Sitting there, she realizes he's the only person in the world she's able to tell about how much she enjoyed it, and have him understand her, because it's the same for him. They're both just as fucked up, both as callous and provoking and vulgar, and that moment she's _dying_ to grab his face and kiss him.

"How'd it feel?" he asks as he gives her a side glance.

She takes a few seconds to think, to pull herself together. "Like I've never given God a bigger 'fuck you.'"

"Yeah, that's a good way to put it," he laughs, unbothered by her words, as expected. Then he stands up. "We should go before the cops show up."

"What, you don't wanna take 'em on?"

"We gotta give 'em some recovery time every once in a while."

"Suppose that's fair," she says as Johnny offers her a hand and helps her up, too. Her breath hitches when he places that same hand on her shoulder next and pulls out a facial tissue to wipe the blood off her face. She blinks, quickly switching her gaze from his eyes to staring at his chest, her hands balling up into fists and nails digging deep into her palms. Imagining beating him up doesn't help — she just wants to kiss him even harder.

"And we need to go get your face fixed," he says, throwing away the tissue after cleaning most of the blood off her skin, and heading towards her purple Phoenix in a parking lot on the other side of the road. "Besides, I don't think you could handle another punch tonight, nevermind bullets."

She frowns at his back. "Excuse me?"

"You almost started cryin' when I touched your face a bit."

"Yeah, okay." She rushes past him to unlock the driver's side door. "You're walkin' home."

"Aw, Boss," he says in his cheekiest tone as he follows her, "don't be like that."

She doesn't budge, and Johnny walks nearly half a mile next to her car before she unlocks the doors to let him in, yet he doesn't even mind, because he's so damn proud of her that night.

 

 

* * *

**IV. 2010 (Post-SR2)**

* * *

 

"You look so fuckin' beautiful like that."

Doris is a writhing, panting, sweaty mess under him, which would make it hard for her to believe his words, if she weren't so royally smashed, just absolutely goddamn wasted, much like a Friday night demands. Her chest heaves. She's flushed from the orgasm he just gave her. Locks of her pink, curly hair stick to her forehead. He runs his hand over her breast, rubbing her hardened nipple with his thumb. He's noticed they always turn rock-hard when he makes her come. He's lost count on how many times that's happened tonight.

Her fingernails are still digging into his biceps when she looks up at him and gives him a smile and a short, breathy giggle. "We're literally bangin' already," she says, sliding her hands down his arms, feeling his muscles. "You don't need to do that."

"I ain't sayin' it just to get laid."

"Oh, honey, I know it's true," she says softly as she moves a hand up to stroke his cheek. "That's why you don't need to say it."

Johnny smirks, chuckles a little, also heavily boozed up. He's honestly surprised they still manage to have sex, considering the state they're both in, as he can't even recall which crib they ended up at to pull each other's clothes off this time. It keeps happening the same way; taking on seductively presented dares, losing bets, or just simply sneaking out of parties together after a night full of stimulating touches and looks. They enjoy the game of spending hours to build up heat between them. Still, it's nothing serious. Just sex between friends. "You could return the compliment, you know," he says.

She purses her lips at him in a scolding manner. "How vain of you."

He snorts. "Yo, who's talkin'?"

"Just the most beautiful woman you ever have or will see."

"Won't argue with that." He leans down to kiss her jaw. His stubble scratches against her neck, making her giggle. "But can't a guy fish for compliments sometimes? I mean, look at me," he says, sounding so damn confident, as he reaches his hand up to swipe some escaped locks of damp, black hair off his face, pushing his hips into hers at the same time to draw a moan out of her. Makes it look like she's in awe of the undeniably high level of hotness he's providing her with. "Yeah, I know, baby. You're so lucky right now."

She's trying hard not to laugh, refusing to give him the satisfaction of being right. She's noticed Johnny being more playful around her lately. After everything that happened while they fought to get Stilwater back under their control, she welcomes the change. "Why are you still talkin'?" she asks in her low, wicked tone, the one he's always been so into. "That's not what I keep you around for."

"Oh, that's mean."

"What did I just tell you?"

Deciding it's best not to waste time nor energy on speaking, he flips her over and grabs a hold of her messy, long hair, pulling a sharp whimper out of her throat. He leans down to kiss and suck on the nape of her neck, leaving a mark on her skin with his teeth, and soon enough he has her back to writhing and panting under him.

 

* * *

 


	3. The perfect crime that I'll commit is loving you despite all of it

 

* * *

**V. 2011 (Pre-SRTT)**

* * *

 

 

"Wow, Boss, you're... beautiful."

Johnny sounds different. Doris freezes. Her heart does a double take inside her chest. She's never had trouble taking compliments, not from him, nor anyone else. She's always ready with a witty comeback, always ready to sound obnoxiously egotistical. She learned young of how confidence was the key element in appearing attractive to other people and that she could exploit it to her liking.

But Johnny can't seem to tear his eyes off her, and she's not sure if anyone's ever looked at her that way before, like he'll outright die if he dares to turn his gaze the other way, or blink, or let out the breath he's been holding in for ten solid seconds. She just gives him a nervous smile, unsure of how to respond, and God, she never does that. That smile makes him hold his breath in for another ten seconds. He didn't think being nervous was something she ever felt.

She wants to tell him how stunningly handsome he looks in his leather jacket, white shirt, and jeans, and black, slicked back hair, but she's afraid of breaking the moment by talking. They're about to have a photo shoot. She was in the middle of walking down the stairs to the studio when his words stopped her, and she just stands there, holding onto the railing with one hand, staring back at him. Her vintage-styled hair falls on her shoulders; the new shade of purple she chose is warm itself, but when light touches her hair, it brings out shades of pink, violet, and even red. Johnny can't figure out how a color like that is possible. It's like she dipped her head in a can of iridescent car paint and the paint clung to her hair like that's what it was always meant for.

"We're starting off with group shots in five, people!"

The photographer's shout isn't enough to catch Johnny's attention, as his gaze travels down to admire Doris' outfit: her long, black dress has a side vent on the hem revealing half of her thigh, and an outrageously low neckline that barely covers her navel. He's never seen anything so impractical, considering her tits will likely pop out the second she makes one wrong move, but damn if she doesn't look breathtakingly gorgeous in it. The long sleeves cover her tattooed arms, but the dress reveals the Saints tattoo that covers most of her chest. Two white gold chains and a fleur-de-lis diamond pendant rest over her cleavage. He swallows down hard. Every time he's sure he couldn't possibly find her more attractive, she proves him wrong. All kinds of thoughts from wanting to tear her clothes off to wanting to fall down on his good knee and ask her to marry him race through his mind faster than he can process them, but his heart races in his chest at an even higher speed. Still, one thing's for sure; when his aching hands and lips finally touch and trail her skin later on, he's going to worship her in all the countless ways every religion known to man finds utterly obscene.

"Boss, Shaundi took the latte macchiato that was specifically meant for me!" Pierce whines as he stomps down the stairs in his white suit and purple dress shirt. They all went through a makeover for promotional purposes.

Shaundi follows right behind him; her dreadlocks are long gone, replaced by a thick, wavy ponytail. "I didn't!" she claims as they pass Doris on their way down. She leans in closer to Pierce, lowering her voice to a sisterly hiss. "I can't believe you told on me, you big baby."

"Girl, it had my name on it!"

"Oh, grow up, Pierce. It's just coffee."

_"Just coffee?"_

They fall into a heated argument of the level of importance which carefully crafted caffeine beverages hold for Pierce, failing to notice that Doris isn't paying any attention to them. Whatever it is she feels when she looks at Johnny, that feeling she's kept hidden for far too long, bursts inside her, all of a sudden flowing through her entire body, making her dizzy and euphoric and, most of all, _alive_. She wants to hold him in whatever spell she unintentionally put on him, ignoring the fact that he would drop dead on the floor pretty fast for forgetting to breathe. She just wants to be stuck in that moment for as long as possible, for the rest of her life, for an eternity, and whether time stops and the world comes to a halt around them, or not, she doesn't care — all that matters is him and her, two stained, restless souls entwined, always together and never apart, and nothing could change that anymore.

The moment ends up only lasting for a couple of minutes, despite both of them feeling like it goes on for hours, but after that day Johnny never looks at her in any other way again.

 

 

* * *

  **VI. 2016 (SRIV, pre-invasion)**

* * *

 

"Johnny would call you beautiful right now."

Doris glances at Shaundi through the big mirror in front of them with her brow furrowed — or her eyes wide from surprise. Kind of both. Shaundi's not sure. The words slipped out of her mouth before she had any chance of thinking them through.

She turns her gaze quickly back to Doris' hair. She's doing some last minute fixing for her before she has to step in front of the press. It's election day, the end of a long, insane presidential campaign. She adds hairspray one more time, thinking of an excuse, or something. Anything that would make it sound like she didn't mean to upset her. "You know, to give you a boost," she says as she sets the bottle down on a table in front of them.

"Right." Doris moves her gaze down to her hands on her lap. "I suppose he would."

"I—sorry, Boss. I didn't mean to... you know."

"It's fine, Shaundi," Doris says, showing her a fleeting, superficial smile, and receiving a sheepish one back. "Thank you."

It's been a few years. Hearing his name doesn't hurt so much these days. It stings, twists her heart for a passing moment, but it doesn't make her want to tear the world down with her. She only feels hollow inside. That's all. It took her a long time to accept Johnny's death. At first, she wanted to die, or she thought she did. Nothing felt clear back then. Some weeks after they returned from Steelport, she had to start going through Johnny's stuff, to sort them out, and she wouldn't let anyone help her. She went through his clothes, guns and knives and other weapons, movies, games, furniture, all the drawings his niece and nephews had given him, fan gifts, dozens of toys he had bought for his cat — everything he owned. She didn't step out of his apartment for a week and by the end, when she cried on his living room floor and held one of his jackets to her chest, she realized she couldn't throw anything away. Everything she had left of him was in that apartment. It wasn't healthy, but she was nowhere near ready to let go of him like that.

She put his things back where they were and moved the apartment to her name. Made sure everything in there stayed the same way as the day Johnny walked out of the door for the last time. When things got overwhelming for her, she would go back there and just sit alone in the living room in complete silence, lie on his bed, or smoke on the balcony, because no matter what happened in her life, nothing could ever be as excruciatingly overwhelming as losing him. She refused to let herself forget and the feeling of guilt superseded everything else.

Today, however, she needed to hear his name. Not a day passes by when she doesn't think about him, but to her shame she can't remember when she last had enough free time to visit his apartment, or his grave, for the matter. After today she will have to make time for that, because whether she wins or loses the election, she wants to sit down on the ground next to his grave with a six-pack of beer and tell him all about it. After all, she's doing this for him. She's living her life for him.

"You still miss Johnny?" she asks quietly.

Shaundi looks at her through the mirror again. They haven't talked about Johnny in quite some time. It's not that she didn't want to, but she thought that maybe Doris had finally started to get over him, so she didn't want to remind her by bringing him up herself. They were never an official couple, or anything, but Shaundi knew they weren't exactly 'just friends,' either. She used to make bets with Pierce about when they would set their pride aside and go on a damn date, or just give in altogether and run away to get married and have a bunch of stunning demon babies together. Back then she put high stakes on the latter happening, but now, to this day, after what happened to Johnny, she feels ashamed for joking around about it.

"I never stopped," Shaundi whispers as she lets her hands drop down, having finished fixing Doris' hair. It's long and black, resting in a complicated bun above her shoulder. After years of shades of pink and purple, she dyed her hair back to its natural color shortly after they returned from Steelport, and Shaundi figured it had something to do with her grief. She looks older, calmer, maybe even wiser, but so thoroughly empty, like the spark that used to glimmer in her brown eyes and the life that so passionately burned behind them are gone for good. Still, she does look beautiful. Tired, but beautiful.

"Me neither."

A sadness washes over Shaundi's whole body, curving her eyebrows, strangling at her throat. Doris gets up, adjusts her dress, inhales deeply, and walks out of the room without another word. Shaundi hears the doors opening further down the hallway, the shuttering and clicking of cameras, and reporters trying to outyell each other. She exhales and takes a step forward to lean her hands against the table, hanging her head between her shoulders to avoid seeing herself in the mirror. Her eyes burn.

Wherever Johnny may, or may not be, she silently prays for him to look out for _their_ Boss today, as she realizes that, in her heart, Doris will never fully not be his.

 

* * *

 


End file.
